A Soliloquy at Two
The phone lies still. The chamber dims its sight.
The walls grow wise with silence long denied.
I sit as one confessed unto the night,
while shadows watch me, curious yet kind.
My thoughts convene, unruly, undisciplined,
half-spoken truths that tremble as they rise.
Old griefs return, in borrowed skins reclined,
and hope arrives too softly to be wise.
I was born late into a weary age,
reared on alarms, on haste, on borrowed breath,
taught how to strive, how neatly play my stage,
not how to meet myself, uncloaked by depth.
O patient dark, thou askest no decree,
no polished truth, no courage neatly won.
Thou stayest while I falter honestly,
and name the selves I thought I had outrun.
So here I stand, no prophecy complete,
no certain end, no lesson neatly spun.
I breathe. I ache. I do not yet retreat.
I’m simply who I am, at twenty-three, alone.
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